Masquerade
by Linkforever125
Summary: Dean spent a year and three months in Hell after Castiel failed to pull him out. After a different Door to Hell is accidentally opened, he takes his chance and climbs out of the pit, but something's wrong. Whatever came through that door wasn't Dean, and nobody knows how to get the real one back.
1. Chapter 1: Escape

**AN: I've been wanting to write a Supernatural fanfic ever since I started watching the series, but I didn't know enough to be able to have my story make sense. Now that (at the time of writing this) I'm almost done with Season 7, I think it's safe to say that I know everything I need to be able to write this fanfiction. I hope it doesn't suck, since I kind of finished the ending in like, ten minutes...**

**Enjoy!**

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Hell wasn't really what those meager humans said it would be. On the surface they described it as an eternal pit of fire and pure hatred, a place where damned souls were forsaken and tortured until the end of time as punishment for their sins, for their mistakes. Once you entered, there was no turning back. You were condemned to eternal damnation and Hellfire.

In all actuality, it was freezing cold, colder than absolute zero or the farthest celestial body from any heat source. Well, at least in some far off corner where the loneliest souls were dumped and forgotten like trash. The temperature of Hell was different depending on where you went, and could change at any time. It was a part of the torture souls were subject to, and Dean had to admit, it was pretty damn effective.

The soul in front of him shivered, his teeth clattering loudly. The man's skin was completely blue; his fingers, toes, ears, and nose were already frozen solid. Frost shimmered in the man's hair and beard, and it coated his eyelashes, gluing his eyes shut.

Dean walked over to the man and grabbed his wrist sharply, earning a cry of pain from the poor soul. Every bone in his body was broken, and he was almost completely frozen, so even the gentlest touch sent waves of agony over him. To Dean, hearing this soul, the thousandth, if not millionth soul to be hung on his own rack, cry out for mercy was like hearing a chorus of angels singing him a lullaby. It was like music to his ears, and he wanted it louder.

With the man's wrist in one hand, Dean took hold of his fingers in the other and bent them up slowly, watching as cracks formed in the rock-hard skin. The man screamed, tears quickly coming to his eyes and freezing as they slid down his cheeks. Dean hardly had to apply force to get the digits to completely snap off, and he watched with amusement as they fell into the bottomless void below him.

Walking over to the other side, Dean grabbed the man's other wrist. "Please…" the soul cried. "Please…please don't."

"Funny," Dean mused, his face blank. "I asked the same thing when I was first thrown in here, and yet nobody listened," In one swift motion, he gripped the man's fingers and snapped them down. A howl of pain echoed in the silence of the void, and Dean smiled. "Lesson one: there is no mercy in Hell. But that's just common sense; you should have known that from the get-go,"

"Please!" the man screamed. "I'll do anything you want! _Anything!"_

Dean paused, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Is that so? Anything?" He chuckled, walking over to be by the soul's ear. "It is nearing the end of the day; perhaps you'd consider my offer?"

The man breathed heavily, and tears slid down his cheeks. "Anything," he repeated.

Dean smiled menacingly. "All right, here's my proposition: I take you off the rack if you put souls on. I'll even throw in a day or two of rest before you take up your duties. How does that sound?"

The man went pale, paler than what he already was, considering he suffered a substantial amount of blood loss. He stared at his torturer with wide eyes, and his lips quivered. "You…you want me to start torturing souls?" he asked fearfully.

Dean nodded. "Hey, it's how things run down here. How do you think I started out, hm?"

"Y-You're crazy! I-I-I'd never-"

"You say you'd never but trust me, you will. Everyone does. Wouldn't it feel amazing to dish out the same crap you've dealt with for so long? Granted, one day on the rack is like being in preschool, but hey, most people don't even stick it out for a week. I go through souls so fast these days it's honestly not as fun as it used to be, so I'd actually appreciate it if you stuck around for a bit."

"Like I said, you're crazy," the man repeated. He turned away and gulped, his chest heaving. A wave of pain washed over him when Dean patted his shoulder, and he winced. Dean only shrugged.

"Suit yourself. I kind of like your resilience anyway. It's a nice change." He walked over to the front of the rack. He held up his hand, his fingers ready to snap. "I'm tired of being so cold; let's turn up the heat." His fingers snapped and fire erupted all around them, the flames soaring high into the air.

The man's skin began to thaw. In just a few seconds he went from frozen solid to drenched in his own sweat and tears. But the heat continued to rise. The flames crept up around him, licking his legs and travelling up his torso until they were whipping around his face. His hair caught on fire and its stench filled the room, causing Dean to cringe a bit—it was one of the few smells, along with the smell of burning flesh, that he could never get used to.

Through it all the poor soul screamed. He screamed and cried until his voice was raw, until he felt as if his vocal chords were bleeding. His blood began to boil inside him; slowly, he was being cooked in his own bodily fluids. All over him his vessels burst, and blood began to pour out of his mouth. He choked and made gurgling noises, his head bobbing as he began to fight to remain conscious.

But Dean was getting bored. This soul wasn't dying quick enough. In one swift motion, he picked up a rusty knife from the table next to him and thrust it into the soul's stomach. He ripped it out and stabbed the man again and again, trying to find some satisfaction in the motion. The man inhaled sharply, and just a few seconds later his head fell limp. Dean looked over his handiwork, shrugging. For some reason, he just wasn't having as much fun today as he normally did.

Maybe having another round at the soul would fix that. Smiling, Dean snapped his fingers and suddenly the man on the rack was whole again. His clothes were good as new, there were no traces of blood anywhere, and any scratch or mark that Dean had inflicted was healed. The man looked down at his body, relief washing over his face, but suddenly he was stricken with terror. He refused to meet Dean's eyes, and it only made his torturer laugh.

"So, about that offer…"

"Screw you,"

Dean, his lips pursed and the knife raised, took a step forward. "Don't test me," he said lowly. "Bear in mind who's in control here."

The man gulped. "Whatever you do, there's no way in Hell that I-"

The sound of distant rumbling cut him off and he fell silent, instead looking around the void worriedly. The empty space around the two seemed to shake, and with each passing moment it grew more and more intense until the sound of the tremors drowned out any other noise. Dean looked around curiously and readied his knife, preparing himself even though he had no idea what was coming.

The shaking was so violent that it forced Dean to hold on to the table next to him, even though technically he wasn't standing on any solid ground. He was just about to steady himself with his other hand when suddenly the shaking stopped, and everything fell silent. Dean looked over to the soul on the rack, who looked like he was about to wet himself, and raised an eyebrow.

"What the hell did you do?" he questioned.

The soul's eyes widened in fear and shock. _"Me?"_ he asked incredulously. "I didn't do anything! I-"

An ear-splitting cracking sound resounded through the void. Dean looked up, the sound having come from above him, and saw the greenish-black background of Hell cracking and crumbling away. Pieces of the ceiling fell down and disappeared into the bottomless pit. Slowly, the ceiling caved in and a ferocious wind began to suck everything into the hole. It picked up everything in sight, and Dean began to feel himself being pulled away.

Frantically, he grabbed onto the rusty table. His grip was tight, but the force of the wind was stronger. From the hole a bright light began to shine, and suddenly Dean knew what was going on. He allowed the vortex to suck him in, and he laughed as he was pulled away.

A door to Hell had been opened. Somebody, some dumbass on the surface was stupid enough to open a Gate to Hell, right above Dean no less, and had allowed him to escape.

Dean was going to flee this Hell-hole, literally. He was going to leave the pit and never go back.

He was finally free.

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**AN: Short first chapter, but I have a lot planned for this story, so future chapters (assuming I don't abandon this like I usually do with fanfictions) will most likely be longer. I hope you guys liked this!**


	2. Chapter 2: Awakening

**AN: Oh hey, another chapter! Kind of surprising, since I am terrible at updating on a semi-regular basis. Seriously, don't expect a new chapter as quickly as I'm putting them out right now. Updates will eventually become less frequent, trust me. It always happens.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

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It was pitch black. The place reeked with an earthy, musty, moist smell. For some reason Dean felt confined, like he was squished in some sort of tiny space, as if the walls were closing in on him. A quick attempt at shifting his position confirmed his thoughts when his shoulder hardly moved a half an inch before hitting something solid. He gasped for breath, inhaling the stale air, and coughed a few times. His throat was absolutely parched, and with each ragged breath he took he felt like he was suffocating.

Dean tried to raise his arms, but he found them to be stiff and almost like they were made of stone. He tried moving his legs, but got the same result. The only thing he seemed to be able to move were his eyes, and even those took a lot of energy to move at an incredibly slow pace, he discovered. But it's not like it would help anyway. He couldn't see a damned thing, and with no way to move his limbs, he was stuck there until he could gain his strength.

Dean took a few moments of rest before once again attempting to raise his arms. When he did, it felt like he was lifting lead weights. He reached up and his hands came in contact with a smooth surface about six inches above his face; it felt like wood, and the wood was weak and Dean figured he could break through it even in his feeble state.

And at that moment, for some reason Dean didn't understand, he paused. He stopped moving and simply looked around in the darkness. After a second he slid his hands up and down the wood above him; he felt at the walls surrounding him, he tried shifting into any other position, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was in a coffin six feet underground, and he was certainly not dead.

In an instant, Dean's mind was sent into panic mode. He balled his hand into a fist and punched into the wood as hard as possible. The force of the punch blew straight through the decomposing wood and dirt rained down on Dean's face. He shut his eyes quickly and sputtered when some got into his mouth, but he ignored it and continued digging upward.

His arms felt incredibly weak and he could barely hold up their weight, but he pushed on and used his hands to dig. Minutes passed, handful after handful of dirt was pushed aside, until finally, Dean's hand broke through the surface and he felt the cool air on his skin. He pushed through with his other hand and began the painstaking task of pulling himself out of his own grave, his arms wobbling under his weight.

When his head broke the surface, Dean gasped for air, but his throat would hardly open up. He reached out and dug his hands into the ground, then began to crawl out of the hole he was still in the process of creating. He grunted and groaned in pain as he pulled himself out, and when he was finally free, he rolled over onto his back, his chest heaving, and panted, having severely depleted his energy. The sun was too bright so he closed his eyes, but he could feel its warmth on his face. He laid there for what seemed like hours, until he felt he had the strength to stand up.

As soon as he did, a wave of dizziness washed over him and his vision was filled with static. Dean became lightheaded and barely registered the feeling of falling face-first into the ground. The whole world spun around him and he sat there, breathing heavily, trying to push back the nauseous feeling that was building up in his stomach. When his vision finally cleared, he pushed himself up and steadied himself on the lone wooden cross right above his grave. He felt his clothes for any kind of weapon, and feeling something in his jacket pocket, he reached in, producing a small knife.

Slowly, he slit his wrist, and watched as a clear liquid with a slight yellow tint oozed out of the cut and dripped to the ground. As his body was drained of the fluid, he felt his muscles become slightly relaxed, though they were still incredibly stiff.

_Embalming fluid?_ Dean thought. _Why the hell would they have me embalmed?_

The thought confused Dean, but after a few minutes of contemplating it, he shook his head and slit his other wrist, trying to get as much fluid out as possible. Every drop of fluid that exited his body made him more mobile, and soon he could actually move his limbs more swiftly, though there was an annoying stagger in his walking. Dean looked around, squinting in the intense sunlight, and picked a random direction and began to walk. He maneuvered clumsily through the fallen trees that seemed to surround his grave in a one mile radius.

Eventually he made it through the trees and out to the highway, which was completely deserted, except for one figure. A woman stood on the other side of the road, wearing a long black ballroom dress, her back facing Dean. Her curly black hair was pulled back into a bun, and her earrings glinted in the sunlight. Dean approached her slowly, trying to be as quite as possible. He held out his knife, ready to strike if necessary.

"I don't think you'll be needing that," the woman suddenly said, and turned around. Dean stumbled back a few steps and raised his knife. The woman chuckled. Her eyes flashed red for the smallest fraction of second before fading back to their normal blue. "Relax," she said gently. Dean lowered his knife. "You can trust me,"

"Where-" Dean tried to say, but no sound came out. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, and tried again. "Where the hell-" His voice was so dry and raspy that he couldn't finish his sentence, and instead entered another coughing fit.

The woman handed him a bottle of water, which Dean took and chugged instantly. "I thought you might need that," she said, smirking. "A year and three months underground will do that to you."

Dean spit water out of his mouth, his eyes wide. "A year and three months?" He glanced down at himself and wiped some dirt off of his shirt. "Damn," Looking around, he squinted in confusion. "Where are we?"

"Near Pontiac, Illinois. About an hour and half outside of Chicago."

"My brother buried me here?"

The woman shrugged. "Hey, don't ask me. I don't know what he was thinking." She looked around for a bit, then settled her gaze on Dean. Her eyes scanned him up and down, and her eyebrows shot up. "You don't look so hot,"

"Oh no, I feel great. Embalming does wonders for your muscles,"

She laughed. "Give it time, it'll fade away. Or if you're really impatient, just drain yourself, though I see you've already started."

Dean looked down at his wrists, which were still slowly oozing the yellow-ish fluid. "Why am I so weak anyway? This isn't supposed to happen,"

"It's your first time on the surface for over a year. Baby steps, Dean. Your strength will come, and when it does-" Suddenly, she fell silent, her eyes darting left and right. After a few moments, she sighed and cracked her fingers. "Sorry, got to go. The Crossroads are calling." She turned to leave, but stopped and looked back at Dean, her eyebrows raised. "You know what to do, right?"

Dean nodded, and the woman smiled. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, and Dean found himself alone in the street. The sun beat down on his face, causing him to squint. Turning to a random direction, Dean sighed and began to walk slowly, his limp still not totally corrected. His movements were still stiff, but he was making progress, and as he stumbled down the uneven and cracked road, he focused on his mission.

He knew what needed to be done. Every day in Hell his orders were repeated until he knew them by heart, so in case by some miracle he escaped back up to the surface, he knew exactly what to do. Whether it was a coincidence or not that the Gate just so happened to open right above him, Dean was going to complete his task and get the reward he rightfully deserved.

He was so caught up in his planning that he almost didn't notice the car speeding down the road. If it weren't for the person honking the horn at the last second, Dean would've been flattened. He jumped out of the way and the car zoomed past before screeching to a stop a few yards away. The door opened, and out stepped a 30-something man wearing jeans and a plain white shirt.

"What the hell, man?" he said loudly, his arms raised, as he walked over to Dean. "Why don't you watch where you're walking?"

"Why don't you watch where you're driving?" Dean countered. He eyed the car curiously. "Where are you headed?"

The man scoffed. "If you want me to give you a lift, too bad. I don't pick up random dudes on empty highways."

"Oh, I wasn't asking." Suddenly Dean threw his knife and it embedded itself in the man's chest. The man gasped and fell to his knees, the red stain on his shirt slowly growing. Dean walked up to the man and kicked him over, then ripped his knife out and wiped it on his jacket. He climbed into the car. "Thanks for the ride!" he called. Slamming the door shut, he turned the car around then stepped on the gas. He sped past a sign that said "Interstate 55 to Route 24 Connector 11 Miles" and cranked up the radio. With the windows down and "Highway To Hell" blasting, Dean smirked and picked up the speed, his mind set on his mission.

His first destination: Bobby Singer's house.

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**AN: And so Dean goes to visit Bobby. Also, where the hell is Sam? **

**Questions, questions, questions... **


	3. Chapter 3: Reunion

**AN: Sorry it's been forever since the last update...I told you I wasn't good at updating regularly. School has gotten in the way but I'm sure I can get another chapter up during Christmas break or maybe even earlier. Who knows. But for now, have another chapter!**

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Empty bottles of beer littered the countertop, taking up so much space that nothing else could be placed there. Some were old, some were new, and every single one of them was different, like whoever drank them was experimenting with different brands to see which one would get him drunk the fastest. On the floor around the table were half-empty bottles of whiskey. Shards of glass were scattered everywhere, and alcohol was stained where it was spilled and never cleaned up.

Opening the fridge, Bobby Singer pulled out two beers and approached the table. He took one look at all the bottles, clenched his jaw tightly, and swept them aside roughly with one arm. The bottles fell to the floor, shattering loudly and spreading everywhere. Bobby put his feet up on the table and opened his beer, then downed a few big gulps.

This was his life practically every day. Wake up, drink, do some research, drink, procrastinate while drinking, watch TV, drink, eat food, drink, go to bed, and do it all over again in roughly five hours. Sam was nowhere to be found; he hadn't heard from the kid for at least six months now. For that matter, he had no idea if Sam was still alive. He never called, never asked for help, never showed up on the news. It was like he fell off the face of the Earth, and Bobby didn't really blame him.

The past year had really taken its toll on the both of them. Bobby drank more than usual, which was a hell of a lot, considering he drank at least a six-pack of beer in one day, and Sam had run off with Ruby, mad with revenge, to try to kill Lilith. Their lives had essentially fallen apart, and Bobby had given up hope. It had been over a year…surely they would have found a way to bring Dean back without making a deal with a demon or sacrificing someone's life by now. But despite all of their research, despite the countless days with hardly an hour's worth of sleep, they uncovered nothing, and Bobby simply stopped trying.

Sam, on the other hand, was not so willing to stop the chase on Lilith. He was obsessed with finding and killing her; it was all he ever talked about when he was with Bobby. Sometimes he would show up on Bobby's doorstep with Ruby after being gone for weeks at a time and stay the night, going over what he had learned so far, only to vanish the next morning before Bobby even woke up. The younger Winchester was a mystery these days. Bobby never knew where he went, what he was doing, if he was safe, or if he was alive. And now that it had been months since the last time they had been in contact, Bobby was getting worried.

In addition to worrying about Sam, Bobby had to deal with his own grief. He had lost what was essentially his son, leaving him to pick up and mend the shattered heart of his brother, only to have said brother turn around, run, and leave him alone. It was a wonder he hadn't drunk himself to death yet, though Bobby supposed lately he had an even higher tolerance of alcohol. It was the only thing he could turn to—with Sam gone, he had no one. He spent his days at home, alone, in deafening silence. Nothing but him and his thoughts.

So when he heard the roar of an engine pulling into his driveway and then falling silent, he stopped mid-sip and listened. The car door opened and then slammed shut, and he heard the crunch of the rocks beneath someone's shoes. Bobby got up and reached for his gun, put a silver knife up his sleeve, and made sure his flask of holy water was in his jacket pocket before walking slowly up to the door. He put one hand on the doorknob and waited.

Perhaps it was just Sam, he reasoned. Perhaps Sam had come back with Ruby and he was just overreacting. Maybe Sam finally killed Lilith and had returned to inform him of the good news. Maybe he had come back and was here to stay.

Or, and Bobby had a feeling this scenario was true, some monster had come to kill him. It was likely, since it had been months since his last case, and when did Bobby, or the Winchesters, for that matter, ever catch a break? There was always something after them. Whatever it was, it was probably looking for information on Sam, and as far as Bobby knew, he was the last one who had contact with him. It made sense that whoever or whatever it was would come for him first.

The sound of footsteps walking up the stairs caught his attention and Bobby readied his gun. The footsteps stopped, and suddenly there was a knock on the door. Bobby waited, listening. The person knocked again—three times in a row. _Knock, knock, knock. _Bobby's hand grew sweaty on the doorknob, and he wasn't sure if he should answer it or not.

"Bobby?"

Bobby's eyes widened. He stared at the door, his lips parted slightly. Even if he wanted to speak, it was impossible for Bobby to utter even the slightest of noises. His throat was practically swollen shut. Instead, Bobby just blinked and tightened his hold on his gun. Either he was truly drunk this time and hallucinating, or he just heard the voice of Dean Winchester, who had been dead for a year and three months, on the other side of his front door.

Three more knocks came. "Bobby, come on, open up. It's me." A few more moments of silence passed. "I'd pick the lock but there's nothing in my pockets. Come on, Bobby, I know you're in there."

This couldn't be real, Bobby thought. This had to be some kind of trick. Sure it sounded like Dean, but was it really him? Despite how horribly wrong he felt about this, however, Bobby was dying of curiosity and felt a lingering sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, this was actually Dean, miraculously raised from the pit. The only way to find out was to see for himself, so taking a shaky breath, Bobby turned the handle and opened the door.

There, in dusty blue jeans, a black shirt peppered with dirt, a green lightweight jacket, and boots, was none other than Dean Winchester.

Bobby stumbled back in disbelief. His grip on his gun tightened; he readied himself for any kind of attack. But Dean simply stood there, and he slowly walked into the house, his gaze lifting up from the floor to meet Bobby's eyes.

"It's good to see you, Bobby," he said, and smiled.

His mouth wide open as if its hinges were loose and his eyes practically popping out of his head, Bobby backed up into the wall behind him. He loosed his grip on the knife up his sleeve so he could feel its tip lightly touching the palm of his hand. Dean advanced forward a bit, and only then did Bobby see the container of salt and jug of water in his hands.

"I figured you'd want to run the usual tests…" Dean held up the items he was holding. He uncapped the jug and poured salt into the water, swirled it around a bit, and then took a few gulps, making a slight face as it went down. "As you can see I'm not withering in pain or giving off steam, so I think it's safe to cross being a demon off your list."

Bobby walked up to him carefully, examining his face and searching his eyes for any signs of him lying or generally not being himself. When he found none, Bobby shook his head. "I don't understand…"

Dean chuckled. "Believe me, neither do I, but for some reason I'm back, and I'd really like to-Bobby!" Dean yelled when Bobby suddenly thrust his knife at his head. Dean quickly dodged the attack and grabbed Bobby's arm, bringing his elbow down and forcing it to bend. It caused Bobby to drop the knife, so instead he raised his gun. Dean swooped down to pick up the knife and when he stood back up there was a pistol pointed at his face. Bobby cocked the gun and Dean raised his hands in surrender.

"You have some nerve showin' up 'round here," Bobby spat with a scowl. "Damn shapeshifters or revenants or whatever the hell you are. One thing's for sure, you're not Dean, so unless you tell me why you're here I'm gonna blast a hole in your skull."

"Bobby, it's me, I swear," Dean pleaded. "Look, I can prove it. You think I'm a shapeshifter or revenant…if I was, would I purposefully cut myself with a silver knife?" To prove his point, Dean rolled up one of his sleeves, exposing his rather thin, pale arm. He gave a small sigh of annoyance as he dragged the blade across his flesh, his blood quickly rising to the surface and sliding down his arm, then dripping to the floor.

Bobby, as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, was not sold on the idea that Dean was really standing in his kitchen, somehow alive and freed from Hell after a year and three months down under. So maybe he wasn't a shapeshifter or revenant. He was probably something else—anything but alive. "All right," Bobby said, scanning Dean up and down. "You're a ghost then. Maybe a poltergeist."

"I'm pretty sure I debunked that when I drank salt water."

"Then you're a vampire,"

Dean stared at him blankly. "Really, Bobby?" He shook his head. "I walked miles in the afternoon sun just to find a damn car to get me here. If I was a vampire I'd be scorched by now."

"Vengeful spirit."

"I'm not angry…well, I'm angry, but-" Dean waved his hand dismissively and sighed. "We've already been through the whole salt ordeal, okay? Bobby, it's me. I'm really here. This isn't some kind of trick, I swear. Would I lie to you?"

Bobby snorted. "The Dean I knew lied to me all the damn time." He fell silent, taking a moment to look Dean straight in the eyes. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for—maybe the glint in his eyes that told him Dean wasn't lying or the truth that was hidden deep in his soul. Whatever it was, he thought he found it, and he moved forward then, placing a hand firmly on Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched and backed up at first, but when he saw that Bobby wasn't going to try to ruthlessly murder him again, he relaxed somewhat.

Bobby dropped his knife on the floor, a sign of trust. "Dean?" he asked softly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "About freaking time," he said, and grunted when Bobby hugged him tightly. He returned the hug and closed his eyes, taking deep, relaxed breaths as he held on to Bobby and didn't let go. Everything was okay now, he thought. He was with Bobby; he was safe. He was home.

Eventually Bobby broke the hug and backed up to an arm's length away. After looking at Dean for just a moment longer, he walked past him and took out to beers from the fridge. He handed one to Dean and resumed his seat at the kitchen table, then motioned for Dean to sit opposite him.

"Quite a mess you've got here," Dean said as he observed the broken shards of glass and spilled dark liquid on the floor. He maneuvered around it carefully. "I mean, I knew you weren't the poster boy for keeping a clean house, but I never thought you'd let it get this bad."

Bobby tightened his jaw. "Yeah well you try to pretend like everything is okay during the time you've been gone." He paused, taking a sip of his beer, then looked at the bottle with a vaguely disgusted expression. "It wasn't easy, Dean. Definitely not."

Dean remained quiet. Glancing at the ruins, he kicked some around with his feet. "I can't even imagine…" His next question he was hesitant to ask, not wanting to stir up any bad memories, but his curiosity was too great to let it go for now. "What uh…what actually happened after…"

"Sam brought you back to my place. Dean, you were shredded to bits. Your chest was ribbons and your insides were slop. I don't understand how the hell you're even in one piece right now. Your intestines should be ripped and falling from your middle."

At that description, Dean grimaced. "You know, I wouldn't mind it if you skipped the fine details. Spare us both the unpleasant thoughts,"

Bobby shrugged. "Hey, you asked. Anyway, we had you embalmed and buried. I personally wanted you salted and burned, a hunter's funeral like you deserved, but Sam wouldn't have it. He said you would need a body when he found a way to get you back, and embalming was the only way he could ensure you wouldn't be bones anytime soon, since he didn't know how long it would be before he could bring you back."

"You think he made a deal?"

Another shrug. "If he did I had no idea. I haven't seen him or talked to him in months."

This revelation startled Dean. Shocked and confused, he set his beer down on the table harshly and scooted forward in his seat. "What? Why not? Is he okay? Where is he? Is he alive? Bobby, how could you let him go out on his own?"

Bobby put a hand up to stop the barrage of questions. Dean obliged and stopped talking, but still looked at him with overwhelming worry. "I honestly don't know if he's alive; I haven't spoken to him for at least six or so months. All of his phones have been disconnected, so there's no way I can contact him. I have no idea where he is or what he's doing at this point in time, but I do know that as soon as you were gone he and Ruby went out looking for Lilith. The kid's obsessed."

Dean scowled. "Ruby…that bitch…did he say anything else? About where he was going? How to contact him if something happened?"

Bobby shook his head sadly. "Nothing. I'm sorry, Dean."

"So there's absolutely no place for us to start looking for him? He's just fallen of the face of the Earth."

"Basically."

Dean sighed, bringing a hand up to wipe it down his face. He stared out the window blankly and watched as storm clouds were approaching from the horizon. A million different scenarios were running through his head, none of them pleasant. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many answers he needed, but he knew Bobby wouldn't be able to provide them. It made him scared to think what might have happened to Sammy. Was he okay? Was he even alive? What if he was beaten an inch from death in some back alley where he was left in the cold and the rain to suffer?

"This is bullshit!" he yelled, suddenly standing up from his seat. Bobby watched in silence as Dean paced around the kitchen, running his hands through his hair and mumbling something he couldn't make out.

"Dean, I know you're upset, but there's nothing we can do. Maybe he'll come back—every now and then he would,"

"Bobby, it's been _months,"_ Dean said angrily. "Half a year! What if he's dead, huh? What then? He won't come back, you know that. Not unless we find him."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Bobby asked, annoyed. "We have no clue where to start looking."

The room fell silent, and Dean stopped pacing. He stood still, simply observing the room around him. After a few moments, his eyes lit up. "Yes we do," Dean replied, his tone suddenly filled with optimism and excitement. He walked over and stood under the doorway leading to Bobby's study. Pointing to the Devil's Trap on the ceiling, he turned back to Bobby and smiled. "What do you say we summon a demon?"

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**AN: To be continued...**


End file.
